A Stray's Tenacity
by Schemilix
Summary: They say it is always the greatest torture, to be left behind. A story of length I don't know, focusing on a boy's becoming, war, and family members needlessly complicating the difficult business of growing up.
1. Change of Heart

Good afternoon, evening, morning or night to you all. I'd like to take the time to thank you for clicking on my story, and encourage you to read it. I should hope you'll enjoy it, though I can't attest to anything. I shan't say much of the story other than the requirements:

**Characters: **Noah, mainly. Basch of course is in it, and 'OC's made to fill the gaps where their parents should be.**  
Warnings: **Not too many. Large amounts of introspection and upset, I suppose, melancholy. Oh and a 14 year old getting ripped into by a wolf, but that's nothing, really.

Enjoy!

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"_Above all things let us never forget that mankind constitutes one great brotherhood; all born to encounter suffering and sorrow, and therefore bound to sympathise with each other._**"** - Albert Pike

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Noah had never considered himself to be a son of war. It wasn't because it would make him innocent, or because he was too just for such a title. Nor was it because he hadn't, in some way, been born with the steady roar of a warrior's blood in his vein's – a fighter's spirit not unlike a dog, loyalty. It wasn't because he didn't want to be.

It was because that would mean Basch was too.

Basch was an idiot. He was an idiot, but he was a good idiot – and yet he had left, and given Noah only the image of his back, a whispered apology that hadn't been a promise to return. Not quite. So he hadn't waited for him, and he hadn't waited by the door some mornings to hear footsteps, a faint laugh in the dust, anything.

Father had gone, taken, and Noah had thought himself bereaved.  
Basch had gone, voluntarily, and there was a nothingness in his brother's place that knew no grief.

* * *

It had been an oppressively hot afternoon when Noah had first pointed an arrow at another Hume. Practice on the beasts of the sands had more than taught him where to point; a skull was a skull. Beasts and Humes shared the same meat, after all.

It was a simple matter, then, of finding some gap in the Imperial's armour and drive an arrow through. It would be almost merciful – compared to what some instruments of death could do, by any means. A bow was the only weapon a youth was permitted to wield. A weapon for staying out of the way, and for relatively clean kills (as far as a splatter of blood and whatever accompanied a soldier's last moments could be called clean).

Nobody cared to protest a youth's right to wield a weapon at all, these days.

So he raised the bow and pulled back the string with muscles losing their boyish softness, and, with arrow knocked, had fixed his steely gaze on the faceless suit of armour questing about under him. With his cloak he was as one with the dying leaves; he dared not take it off despite the heat. The branch held his weight. He held the bow.  
Then he looked up. Noah saw himself, flint eyed, pleading silently to stop. Noah saw the soldier buckling, and blood, and he saw a wild-hearted beast of the forest crashing to the floor with confusion in its dark eyes.

A strange choking noise came from his throat and he lowered the bow. The arrow returned to its quiver almost of its own volition as the Imperial crept away, unaware. When he looked up to the other tree again, Basch had looked away, but he seemed almost grateful. He touched his fingers to his breast and held them out to his brother without looking and, shaking, Noah did the same in return.

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He'd sworn never to wield a bow again. A ridiculous vow. With Basch there the forest seemed to think better of challenging two of them, and so the imprudence went unpunished – but one morning he had ventured into the woods alone and only narrowly ventured out again.

Wolf-kin were easy enough to take down, or at least deter. Their masks were nigh impenetrable, their fangs tough enough to rip the hide of a saurian and snap the bones from a wandering Hume in two. But their own skin was delicate, their fur a thin, streamlined layer. Patterns that made them invisible on the plain made them a beacon in the ruddy-dark hues of the forest – perfect for evasion or even prey. And these were the omega, the wolves forced from the pack for this or that, shunned from the lupine bounty of the plains and sands. They were vicious because they were starving and lonely, and because they were starving and lonely they were a quick catch that made for a handsome profit, or an easy foe.

If, of course, one had a weapon. Without one, the beasts were all claw, fang and rippling muscle, with a cry to daze an unwary Hume and a bite to ensure they would never recover. Landisi wolves were known as jackals. Jackals and Humes were not friends.

Noah ran – the forest that was so frequently a kind of shelter from such assaults suddenly reclaimed its debt and grabbed at him with thorns and unexpected branches at every opportunity. One jackal was a nuisance to a boy like him, but even the starving, lonely jackals hunted in disorganised packs. There would be more.

Soon enough the jackal fighting through the brush behind him let out a keening yowl – and was answered. Perhaps Noah would have ran faster, but running faster than the superlative defied all logic. His organs belonged on the inside; and his insides, not those of a jackal. Their eerie barks, almost like cajoling shouts, echoed here and there, closing in. Maybe he was lost.

The claw slashed his side open before he realised, and he reeled, wheeled around to face the beast. There was nothing he could do, and stupidly he found himself growling back at its canine rictus with the soulless white mask. Another howl sounded from the forest beside as his assailant pawed back out of sight, to become a pair of red eyes mocking him. And he would die, he thought, he would die alone and slowly, knowing no idea where he was. Animal instinct had him respond to one's charge with a shoulder to its chest. Panic and a surge of pain had him dodge another. Climbing a tree would only have them wait until he came to them and, ridiculous as it was, he was too proud to give them that – as if they understood.

Suddenly he was dizzy, dazed – fear? The jackal, expecting some form of retaliation, nearly collided with the tree behind him when he only swayed to the side. The hunt was on, the hunt was off. Dimly he was aware of the curious laughing sound they made and then another noise, not a jackal at all. Something collided with one. Blood was in its claws. His blood, probably, the concept couldn't register.  
"Noah?"  
That voice, of course it would be him. The jackals scattered, Noah smelt blood, too much blood. Was the jackal dead?  
"Noah!"  
_That's my name._ What of it? He heard words 'bleeding' or 'damned fool' or 'get up, get up damn it'. Strong arms had him upright, and he hadn't even been aware of going down at all. Briefly some dull flicker of recognition told him that something was wrong, very wrong, but it was a glittering fish in the jaws of a surfacing shark, and blackness came.


	2. Two Kinds

Alright, a new chapter. A little shorter according to the word count, but the two halves are longer so I left it be. This one's focused considerably more on talking and such, and introduces Elarise, my idea of their mother. She seems a little butch but she's actually a bit of a waif, for a warrioress.  
Anyway. I hope you enjoy this one for what it is. The plot'll pick up/get a little more actions and such in the coming chapters, but really this focuses on character 'development'. Becoming as twisted as he is doesn't happen overnight, nor without someone, somewhere, being to blame. So this is really about how Noah became Gabranth, I guess (there's enough of Ffamran becoming Balthier, much as I love our leading man). I almost consider them seperate people.  
Also, teenage angst. Derp. Reviews much appreciated should you spare the time - enjoy!

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**"**_The heart that truly loves never forgets._**"** - Proverb

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"Don't you dare."

Noah opened his eyes – slowly, as if afraid of the world rushing in too swiftly. Light spilled inwards, dimly. It was a comforting sort of dimness, warm and ruddy, clean but human. A familiar darkness blocked the front of his vision.

"Good. Boy knows how to listen to his mother," the silhouette said pleasantly, and he felt his mother's hand on his brow. Noah found himself thinking: her skin was always cool when he was too hot, and always she was warmth when he was cold.

Somehow, she was both now. In different ways.

It didn't take Noah long to notice the sword left on the table, and the blood streaking down his mother's pale arms. So it had been those he'd felt under him... He could have sworn-

"You're surprisingly strong," he laughed faintly, annoyed at how weak his smile was.

Her response was less amused than he would have liked. "You're surprisingly light. I swear you've lost weight."

But he'd heard his father, and it was him, it was his voice that had called out. Maybe he needed to sleep... for a long time.

A thought struck him, "I was unconscious?"

She nodded; an hour or two, she said, and not a mortal wound with the right spells. She hadn't risked healing too deeply, she said – everyone knew the consequences of a layered cure. Better to let the body take its own course as nature dictated without magicks interfering.

Back in Archades, Mother had once told him, she'd seen the result first hand and there was nothing, nothing to be done. Everyone had called her 'Elarise, the battle medic', and it had sounded disparaging, somehow. Weren't life and death close enough in a battlefield to tamper with both? Noah couldn't imagine fighting at all, let alone having the responsibility of mediating the passage of death through the field. A rare breed; maybe they were afraid, the haters.

But that was gone, now. The sickness had hollowed her, and there was something hollow, too, about mending life once she'd caused it to be.

Elarise whistled. He woke, with the startled realisation of one who hadn't noticed he'd fallen asleep. Mother seemed solemn, despite the noise, and he found himself frowning.

But she smiled when he did; he could nearly hear her thinking 'you were born an old man'. Nearly, but it was more a knowing. He would have smiled too, but her eyes didn't catch it – he settled for a blank stare at the ceiling, unable to settle on one expression and so taking none.

"You didn't mean it, did you?" she asked, suddenly.

"Mean what?"

Noah propped himself up on his elbows. It was excruciating – he ignored it, keeping his head up. With a sigh, his mother shook her head and said, Never mind, then refused to say anything more. One sharp look had him give up, more out of spite than obedience.

He stared at his hand, noticing the mark from holding the arrow had faded. The skin was still rough from climbing, from falling in sand and unnumbered other things the hands were meant for, but his fingers felt almost naked. That was to say nothing of his side. Surely he'd have looked, but it was half healed, bound, and worse was the pain when he twisted. Better to leave it be, he thought, and shut his eyes with a stubborn insistence on sleep.

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Darkness had fallen entirely and the red heat was gone, fled to the West. Stars pricked and bled faint light through a dark sky; Noah watched them and pretended he didn't hurt. They'd argued, in that wordless way he had – where she had left and he had stood in her absence to stare at nothing. So she come back. Then she'd knocked his jaw with her knuckles, lightly, and told him as if it meant nothing.

"I think I meant it," he'd whispered, glaring at the emptiness the window offered him. Having none of it, Elarise growled faintly and almost savagely pulled him closer – he tried to withdraw, awkward at the contact but she held firm.

"You don't mean it," she hissed, "you know you don't."

He almost said 'but I do, mother' but something stopped him – something in her warmth and the bizarre familiarity of being held made him stop. His breath became broken, arrhythmic, and then settled gradually.

"You wouldn't leave me alone, Noah," murmured his mother, softly, "And you know I didn't leave Archadia so I could become one of her children again."

Noah struggled, and this time she let him go. Her flint eyes were almost accusing – he had to look away as they reminded him too much of mirrors.

"No, you left because of father," he said, too sharply.

"It doesn't matter why. What matters is that you need to pull yourself together. I can't stay firm if my boys are breaking apart, Noah. Do me a favour."

The eyes were imploring and he shut his own.

"And if someone needs me, I can't go, can I." The words were a question but they were flat, already answered. "I've had enough. With leaving."


End file.
